


In Threes

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, HP Reversathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-14
Updated: 2006-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Conversations with the dead leave their mark. (Sirius gen, mention of SB/RL, SS/RL)
Kudos: 1





	In Threes

**Author's Note:**

> My dearest Ms. Pergola Inchfyngre (imochan),
> 
> I'll admit, having received your request from the Reversathon Publishers at a relatively late date (rest assured, through no fault of their own), I jumped at the opportunity to provide you with a tale about the late Sirius Black. In fact, your prompt for "three conversations with the 'dearly' departed" immediately provided what we in the industry like to refer to as 'a hutch full of rabid bunnies', and I do very much hope that my take on the situations herein meet with your approval.
> 
> I for one held him in the highest regard, and news of his untimely passing grieved me more than I care to recount at this moment. It's difficult to discuss even now, and though I apologize for the rather maudlin thoughts so late in the fest, I'm afraid they match the mood of the piece that I've put together for your-- dare I say, 'enjoyment'?
> 
> Oh, dear. I'm afraid I've dampened my handkerchief yet again.
> 
> Cutting this letter short, lest I smudge the ink with the steady patter of my bereft weeping,
> 
> Rasmentella Leerworthy

**August, 1980**

Sirius stood frozen to the spot, eyes riveted on the family crypt, hand poised to push open the ornate door. His jaw was set, chin lifted though his hard expression said nothing about the white noise filling his ears or the steady thrum of his heart beating a tattoo of guilt and accusation.

The palm of his hand met the door with unexpected warmth, and Sirius fought the mental image of the crypt as a living thing; iron and marble flesh waiting to swallow this wayward son whole. Nothing of the sort occurred and Sirius took another step into the chill of what had been the final resting place of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for centuries, shivering in the stillness, skin prickling with sudden goosebumps. Sirius had a good reason to be here; he _belonged here_ , and as such his body continued his forward motion long after he would have consciously chosen to stop moving.

As it was, his feet took him to the far wall and the newest filled niche, staring blindly through the burnished plaque he'd come to see. His fingers traced it of their own volition; it was the second name he'd ever learned to write and memories flooded forth unbidden of days before his life had been polarized to an extreme. Perhaps before he'd realized it had already been.

"Regulus."

The single word fell hard from his lips, a lead weight incapable of remaining airborne. Sirius cringed, but spoke again.

"I'm sorry--"

In the tradition of most apologies to the dead, no response was forthcoming; no abosolution or forgiveness to be had. A hand closed on his shoulder and though Sirius started, he was not entirely surprised. He should have known Remus would follow him in, just as he knew that no words would be forthcoming there either unless he chose to speak first. Sirius leaned into the touch, shutting his eyes as he murmured, "I should have been there for him, Remus."

" _He_ turned away from _you_ ," came the quiet reply. "You couldn't have done anything more. He didn't want you to."

Sirius brought his fist down onto the plaque without warning, imagining his brother's name stamped indelibly into his wand hand.

"Bollocks. He wasn't old enough to turn away at first. I should have tried harder," Sirius growled. His voice grew more desperate, more broken as he added, "I was supposed to protect him and I left him. Let him kill himself."

Remus' arms slid around his shoulders and Sirius hung his head, tears slipping down his cheeks as he mumbled, "I let my family have him. Let my family keep their good boy; their good Slytherling..." He shook his torso once in a half-hearted attempt to escape Remus, who did not release him. "I don't-- I don't deserve it."

Listening, Remus tightened his grip, setting his cheek against the nape of Sirius' neck, soothing in a wordless murmur as Sirius went on.

"I couldn't save my own baby brother, Remus. How? How does James think I'd do any better for Harry?"

"That's entirely different, you know that."

Sirius went on heedless, as was his wont, rocking as his own hand gripped his face.

"That should have been me. It should have been me."

**December, 1981**

The screaming had stopped just recently, an entire month into his stay. If the guards had been human, they would have remarked on his strength and just how much of the Dark magic he'd withstood before the state of near-catatonia set in.

Given that the guards were Dementors, they were only grateful to have feasted so long and so well on Sirius Black. When he finally went silent and wide-eyed, what was almost a ripple of regret passed through their foul ranks.

His formerly glossy hair hung limply across his eyes, a physical barrier to the horror of his location, a curtain shutting out everything from the best and worst times of his short life to the most pedestrian of his memories. The despair was close to the surface at all times, however. He'd lost track of the last time he ate or slept, lost track of the last time he dreamed of his friends or bed, sun or moon or Remus.

At first he expected he'd be brought out for trial- he expected someone would come to see him. Or rather, before he'd landed here and how it had occurred, he would have thought to expect those things, because they made sense.

Since it was Peter that had given Lily and James to Voldemort, nothing made sense anymore, and given such, it all made sense, it did. It made sense that he was locked in Azkaban for having a hand in killing Lily and James for whom he would have died, and killing a dozen Muggles and Peter, who wasn't actually dead, but who had killed said Muggles.

He slapped the metal water cup hard across the room in a rare expenditure of energy, his eyes tracking its progress as it sprayed dank water in a spinning arc. It rolled clanking to a stop at a pair of trainers that Lily had been scheming to get rid of for months.

"Prongs?"

Vaguely glinting in the dimness, James cracked the grin that he used in place of saying, "well, this is a fucked up situation, boys" and moved forward out of the shadows at the far (ha!) side of Sirius' cell.

"What of it, you great pansy?"

Sirius shook his head and pressed further against the wall, mumbling, "No. Nonononono," but James came closer still.

"Padfoot. You look like utter shite," James said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Jesus, at least there aren't any mirrors about."

"You can't. You cannot be here because you are dead and you are not haunting anywhere because you and Lily-- you and Lily you died and you can't... aw fuck. No," Sirius said, stringing the words quickly, as if they were one huge word barely broken by half-breaths.

"Does it bloody well matter if I'm in your head or a billowing sheet with clanking chains? Point is I'm here to distract you." James was still smiling as he crouched before Sirius. "What's there to do around here, save going totally mad?"

Sirius turned his face to the wall, cheek smashed up against the clammy stone, willing James away.

"Damn it, Sirius, look at me," snapped James in a voice he seldom used and Sirius' blood ran cold. He opened his eyes just barely and tried to push away from the wall, managing to turn with what was almost a whimper.

"Better. Now listen," said James, leaning closer. "Get this through your thick skull. You absofuckinglutely cannot let yourself die here. You are better than this, and Harry needs you."

"He doesn't need me. Remus--"

James flicked his forehead as he spoke. "--is a big, slobbering, man-eating wolf in the worst way once a month, and those bastards will never let him near Harry without you. Besides the sod needs you just as much."

Stomach clenching, Sirius shook his head again. "Needed all of us. He'll start hurting himself again; he'll start--"

"You, Padfoot. You. We keep Moony in line, but you do the cuddling bit and lick the owies better, and god help me but I don't need the visual, so keep it to yourself."

Sirius huffed a breath that was almost a laugh and James lunged forward, covering Sirius' mouth with his hand, looking over his shoulder. "Don't. Don't you dare. They'll hear that from a mile away."

Clutching at his dead best friend's forearm, Sirius said in a voice close to breaking, "I deserve this; I should die here because I killed you, I did, you and Lily both--"

"Shut your stupid gob, prat," James said, shaking Sirius once so hard his teeth rattled. "You didn't do this, Peter did, and that son of a bitch will pay soon enough. You, on the other hand, need to get your shite together."

Inconsolable, Sirius rocked and murmured words he knew he'd said so many times already, he couldn't possibly remember them all.

"Should have been me. God, James, I'm so sorry. It should have-- should have been me. I should have known."

Sirius realized then he was clutching empty air to his chest and folded forward on himself, cursing that starving or thirsting or wasting to death was so fucking slow; wishing he had something with which he could expedite the process.

A stamping, clacking sound set the muscles of his entire body clenched at the familiarity of slender hooves striking flagstone. Looking up, though his neck felt barely able to support the weight, he caught sight of Prongs, head down and ready to charge, stamping a front hoof in Sirius' direction.

Though the barest hint of self-preservation whispered in Sirius' ear that he should do something about the large animal about to charge, nostrils flaring, antlers low and trained on him, he did nothing but watch as Prongs did in fact charge. At the last second, however, his body reacted on his behalf and he did the only thing he could.

He shifted into Padfoot and ducked under the charging Prongs with a growl, turning on his tail teeth bared to face the obviously mad Pack Brother. A Pack Brother that was again nowhere to be seen. But Padfoot...

Being Padfoot was still fairly simple. And the Smelly Death Things couldn't really touch him the way they touched his people self; they felt far, far away. Padfoot stood in the center of the cell and sniffed at who was where around him and down the hall, then he hopped up onto the hard cot to niffle under the blanket and curl into a tight ball. He shut his eyes and wished it was over, or better, that it had never begun. Whining low, he wished he had someone left that would come through and save his sorry arse.

Most of all, he wished he had a good plan with which to save himself.

**June, 1996**

Sirius paced every level and every room of Grimmauld Place furiously, the bottle of firewhiskey in hand as yet untouched as he had not decided whether he was going to be a good dog and obey Remus and to some extent, Snape. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle and he swung it aimlessly, arguing in his head that Harry was out there in a Death Eater trap, and Harry needed him and damn it all, since when did _Snape_ tell him what to do? Snape who was as greasy a bastard as he ever was, who treated Harry like utter shite and used Wolfsbane as pathetic attempts at ingratiating himself with Remus. Sirius saw; he did, and he hated Snape more than ever, with a fury of mistrust that compared only to his undistilled hate for Voldemort (and Peter, always Peter).

 _Snape_ telling him to _stay_.

Harry needed Sirius. Snape could not be trusted. Sirius could not fail Harry as he had his father. As Sirius had failed his own brother.

He paused midstep in Buckbeak's room, checking the bandages again. Deciding the hippogriff could use fresh water, he shouted for Kreacher on impulse, needing something on which to vent his frustrations.

The gnarled house elf appeared, snickering, regarding Sirius with little more than outright contempt. "Master called. Kreacher came."

Buckbeak squawked and stood, rearing and flapping his one uninjured wing, brandishing his talons by way of a clear threat in Kreacher's direction. Narrowing his eyes, Sirius spat, "You." He lunged and wrapped his fingers around Kreacher's throat. "You did that to Buckbeak."

Kreacher's words were strangled, his knobby hands grabbing at Sirius' knuckles. "Kreacher did only what was allowed; nasty blood traitor that Master is, yes, and his brats will be sorry. Kreacher made Mistress proud."

Sirius squeezed and no further sound escaped Kreacher's throat; the only 'Mistress' that qualified was his mother, and the only thing left of his mother was her portrait. Making a connection he hadn't at all expected, Sirius walked out of the room, house elf in tow, down the corridor and stairs. He barely took a breath as he pulled away the drapes that covered his mother's portrait and waiting for the old bitch to stir. Walburga Black began screeching and spitting, swearing and rolling her eyes and Sirius pounded his fist on the portrait of a woman whose madness he'd never really thought had been the showy type.

"Shut the fuck up, Mother. I know."

The portrait eased up, glancing from side to side as if to make certain that no one else was in the room before standing straighter, crossing her hands in front of her dress. Her eyes narrowed as her features pulled into a smirk and the family resemblance was suddenly uncanny.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" roared Sirius, as if taking up her madness as she set it aside.

Walburga hissed, "Duty, of which you know nothing."

Sirius flung Kreacher at the portrait without a second thought, pointing at him as he crashed in a whimpering heap. "STAY." He turned his attention back to his mother, standing unphased.

"I have to say, I did precious little," she smiled coldly, inclining her head. "Your godson did most of it on his own." With a pleased sigh, she added, "I do hope he enjoyed it. I don't believe he will have the opportunity do so again."

Filled with impotent rage that had built to a point at which he could not be any more angry, or describe it if he was, Sirius scrubbed a shaking hand through his hair. "No. No. Not this time. He can't have Harry. He won't. You're wrong." He smashed the bottle of firewhiskey against the portrait next, fist holding the broken neck slamming into the portrait again and again.

The jagged edges of broken glass did not so much as scratch the surface, but the image of his mother had the decency to flinch back even as she sneered. "Not that you could stop it from happening." Walburga's words were clearly calculated, and yet Sirius could see nothing past his own regret; his own need for contrition.

"No." Sirius shook his head ineffectually again, even as he made his decision. "No." He pointed at Kreacher and the house elf cringed.

"You. When Dumbledore gets here, you tell him. You are to tell him what happened. Tell him--" Remus' voice, pleading with him to stay, promising to keep Harry safe rang in his ears for a split second before being replaced by Snape's voice telling him to stay. Snape, telling him to stay like a god damn dog with that filthy little sneer as he tugged unobtrusively on the elbow of Remus' jumper. Snape, overlaid by his mother gloating...

"Tell him I went to the Ministry."

Dripping with mock maternal tenderness, Walburga tilted her head. "My little Gryffindor." She straightened and spat in the direction of his feet. "May he send you straight to hell."

Sirius set his jaw and didn't bother to draw the drape as he walked away from the image of the long-dead woman that had given birth to him, intent on doing what he could not for Regulus or James. What was his duty to Harry.

"If that's so," he growled over his shoulder, "I'm long overdue."

Not this time. He wasn't going to fail this time.


End file.
